One Sided
by JustCallMeMarly
Summary: There's only so much a person can give... but does it take strength or desperation to finally cut the tie? She doesn't know... she doesn't know if she ever will. [MacStella angsty oneshot]


**_A/N… This one came from a _****_Dark Place_****_. Don't ask where, cuz I'm still trying to locate it on the map… :) So, it's definitely angst, through and through. A lot different from the other CSI:NY pieces I've written (or am in the process of writing – sorry 'bout that!). As for timeline, I'd say this is before any of the mid-to-late season episodes where we saw a significant warming in the Mac/Stella dialogue… if in that timeline at all. Could be pre-first season (had to highlight this since some reviewers seem to be confused about the characters and why they are the way they are)… I'm not entirely sure where it fits._**

**_Standard Disclaimer applies… Don't own nuttin… In an alternate universe I was named Jerry Bruckheimer and Co., though, and am richer than Midas… :)_**

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**One-Sided  
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She looked at the transfer papers sitting on her coffee table. In plain sight. He hadn't seen them. He's never seen them. But to be fair, he's only been to her apartment a total of four times in the five years they've been working together. Five, if you count the quick stop he'd made tonight. She didn't.

They'd been friends once. The best of, in fact. But that had been pushed aside in the past. For Claire. Always for Claire. She'd like to call him selfish, but she can't. Even it death, it was for Claire.

She sipped at the Pinot Grigio he had brought over. It had been an apology for missing the dinner he had promised to be there for. It had been her birthday… and there'd only been one plate at the table.

_"Here, I brought your favorite," he said, handing her the bottle. Stella looked at the label._

_"Pinot grigio… Thank you... Come in, I can heat you up some dinner."_

_"No, I can't. I'm sorry…"_

Her favorite was Pinot Noir, when she actually _did_ drink. She was sure he never even noticed. It was that moment that really began to think about their friendship.

Ten years they had been friends. For the first five years they had simply been friends – they had gone through training together and stayed in contact after they'd graduated and gone on to separate beats.

_"Hey Bonasera…" he'd called to her before she left the auditorium._

_"Yeah, __Taylor__?" she asked._

_"How 'bout a drink," he said with that half-smile of his. "Celebrate this piece of paper and sorry excuse for a badge…"_

_"As long as you're buying…" she commented._

It had been the first, and only, time he'd ever extended his hand in friendship without anything prompting it. He'd simply wanted her as a friend. She wondered when that had changed – when had her friendship become a trivial thing to him? Something that could be pushed to a dark corner, only to be brought out and dusted off when he needed something?

They'd gone for that drink. And they'd met weekly for drinks after that. But exactly a year after that first drink together, he'd met Claire. They married after six months. He'd rushed over to her apartment to tell her… both the engagement and the trip to her place had been the most spontaneous than she'd ever seen him. He'd been happy, and she'd been happy for him.

But somewhere amongst the many troubled midnight calls only a year or two later, she'd realized that he didn't call to chat anymore. They didn't go out for drinks…

_"I don't know what to do Stella. We keep fighting. I've tried everything to make her happy. I've moved back to __Chicago__ for her, I've changed jobs for her, I've even thought about kids for her..." he said. His voice was quiet, reserved._

_"Buy her flowers, Mac," she said._

_"What?" he asked. Stella sighed._

_"Buy her flowers and tell her you will cut back on your hours. You work too hard," she said._

_"But Stella… I just became a CSI. I can't simply cut back," he said._

_"You're human, Mac. They can't expect 40 hour days. You can cut back," she reminded him._

Things had been better after that. Well, as far as she had known. The calls had stopped coming. It was something she should have expected. He was in Chicago, with his wife and his new job. She was in New York, working her beat and trying to work through her own problems without the support of answered phone calls. It was just after she'd settled a complaint against her – one that would have gone to Internal Affairs if the suspect hadn't confessed to and been convicted of multiple homicides – that another call came.

_"We're coming to __New York__," he said._

_"What?" she asked, excited at the thought that her friend was coming back to their old stomping grounds. Maybe they could go out for drinks again!_

_"Claire got a transfer. She'll be working in the Towers. And now that my service is officially up, I've taken the CSI supervisor position at NYPD," he said. He sounded happy again._

_"That's great!" she said, meaning it._

The first drink had been awkward. They hadn't known what to say to each other. She supposed that's what happened when two friends who hadn't seen each other in five years got together again for the first time. There wasn't much they could catch up on because their lives were exactly the same from where they'd left off. Or maybe they were too different. She didn't know. So, she'd sipped her Pinot Noir and he drank his Miller in an uncomfortable silence – but she doubted they even noticed. The next day, they had gone their separate ways again. She to her beat, and he to his office in the Crime Scene Unit.

She'd been shot at nearly a week later. A bullet had smashed the glass in the side view mirror next to her head. The bandage on her forehead told her how close she'd come to not being around anymore. The entire day she had been so shaken that her partner and her supervisor begged her to take the day off. She did. And she wanted to call him. To tell him all about it even though she knew he'd heard about it through the gossip grapevine. But she didn't. And he hadn't called her. But a month later, he did call.

_"I've got an opening for a CSI one. I want to offer it to you," he said._

_"Why?" she asked. There was a small pause._

_"You should get off of beat. I think you'd be great at crime scene investigation. Your experience in the field would put you steps ahead of all the other candidates," he said. It was as close to expressing concern as he would come._

_"Fine. I'll interview and see what it's going to entail," she relented._

It had been a perfect fit. If she'd known that she would have given up beat years ago. It had helped that she had been scheduled to work and learn along side Mac. He was quickly gaining the reputation of one of the best CSI in the state – a detailed workaholic. Whatever skeleton of a friendship they had was pushed under the carpet under the guise of supervisor-employee relations. It wouldn't do for the rest of the unit to think Stella got special treatment because of her history with the boss. Had there ever been any special treatment from him anyway?

Then came a simple, sunny day in New York. The Towers fell. Claire fell with them. His reputation had swiftly moved from one of the best CSI in the state to one of the best CSI in the nation. His office had become his unofficial home. She'd called and called and called him. Nothing she said or did got through to him.

_"Talk to me, Mac. You need to talk about this," she pleaded._

_"Stop calling me, Stella," he said before hanging up._

It was after that he'd started staying at the station. And she'd stopped calling. The well of patience, understanding and selflessness was dangerously close to being dry. She had to stock up again, because she knew that it would be sucked out again when she tried to talk to him again. But she was always rebuffed. Cases with Mac were either non-existent or just strictly professional – only talking when necessary and if it was, one word answers. Most of the time, he just stuck her with Don and Aiden. She didn't let it bother her, though, until she got home. Only then would she allow herself to cry for the grieving Mac and for the friendship that he never seemed to want anymore.

_"You want to go grab a beer with me, Mac?" she asked. He looked up at her from his impeccably neat desk._

_"I've got things to do…" he said before looking down at the sole file folder on his desk. Stella wasn't sure if her mind had added the 'better things' or if it had been implied in his dry tone._

_"Okay," was all she said before walking out._

She'd tried. She'd tried so hard to find a way to help him. Her own sleep was disrupted at nights as her concern seemed to take over her life. And just when she thought he'd be silent forever, her telephone rang. It had been three in the morning. He'd talked for hours… until the sun came up. And she'd listened to every painful word, to every soul-felt sigh, and to the anger she knew had been building. Every night after that, at two o'clock on the dot, her phone would ring. It was habit. And the one time the habit had been broken – he'd called at eleven instead of two – things changed again. Her date had stayed for a nightcap and she'd been in her bedroom when the phone rang. He – Peter? – had answered the phone. She wasn't aware of what the exchange had been, but she remembered how her heart had raced in panic when her date had told her that her boss had called. The next day, Mac was back to the impersonal, practical CSI supervisor. There'd been no call that night. Or the next.

_"Mac… will you talk to me, please?" she lowered herself to begging. He slipped off the lab coat and walked to the door._

_"What do you want me to say?" he asked. Stella's eyes went wide. It was the first time he'd asked her anything that concerned her._

_"I just want to know you're alright," she said._

_"I'm fine," he said and exited the room. There had been no 'how are you?' or 'are you alright?'._

So rather than try to prod him anymore, she stood silently to the side and let him go about his work, his day… his life. Something that she had no part of. Something that she learned about on the peripheral, not from him. So, she didn't pick up the phone to see how he was, or invite him out for drinks anymore. She didn't answer the phone in the off-chance it _did_ ring at two in the morning. There was no more trying to get him to chat about inconsequential things or to even say anything at all. She'd hoped the lack of effort would open his eyes to how much she put in, how much he took. But it stayed the same.

She looked at those transfer papers once more as she filled her wine glass again. She loved him, after all this time. Now that she recognized it, she knew that she always would. But she also knew that there was only so much more she could give to him without getting anything in return. In friendship _or_ in love. Stella Bonasera was a strong woman. Or that's what people told her, anyway. There was life after Mac Taylor. But was she strong enough to cut that tie? She'd provided the only side to a one-sided friendship for close to ten years. Would he even notice if that one side just disappeared?

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**_A/N: Whew… talk about pits of despair! Eeeek. As I said, don't know where that came from. Sorry to bring y'all down. But let me know what you think anyway…_**


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